iDuel
by d i n o b o t
Summary: What could be better than an all-out Sam and Freddie fencing duel? Perhaps what ensues afterward? The awesomeness that is Sam/Freddie. One-shot.


**iDuel**

A confident smile curls his mouth, and even though there's no one else in the room, and his entire head is covered by his mask and bib, he continues to beam assuredly behind the metal mesh inches from his mouth. The sword's hilt balances perfectly between his fingers, and a few crossing slices make a light swooshing sound from the sharpened blade cutting the air cleanly. He lunges, mimics a parry, spins and thrusts, landing a mark on the dummy stationed by the far end of the wall. The flexible blade bends from the force then straightens when the pressure is released and he cuts three imaginary lines in the dummy's plastic chest to finish the routine.

"Ha! 'F' for Freddie!" he announces, sticking the weapon in the floor. Finally, his confident smile is revealed as he takes off his mask and holds it against his side, admiring his handy work from the last half hour of practice.

"More like 'F' for 'Fail," a voice interrupts.

He turns.

Sam Puckett leans in the doorway, with one hand on the knob of the open door to the iCarly studio. Blond wavy hair cascades down both shoulders, resting on her long sleeve striped shirt and black mini vest. She's wearing her worn khaki capri pants, and he can hear her size six tennishoes squeaking against the hardwood floor - just to annoy him. She sports a smile of her own - Sam's smile, the kind of half willed visage of enjoyment and annoyance all mixed into one. And her well crafted insult is nothing new, expected even, and it bounces off him like poorly aimed meatballs - after all, she's done it before.

She looks him up and down, decked fully in his official fencing ensemble. White breeches tucked into his equally white boots, and he adorns his custom made form fitting jacket, the ancient Benson family crest sown into the front, with both gloves slipped on providing optimal dexterity and performance. Last is his metal interwoven mask, to which he resolutely holds against his side, his other hand placed firmly on the other hip. He'd look heroic, handsome even, that is, if he wasn't such a dork.

"You look like a human tic-tac," she laughs, finally closing the door.

He makes a face. "Mebbe you just need a breath mint, Sam."

"Good one," she thumbs up sarcastically. "What are you doing in the iCarly studio, anyway?"

"My mom still won't let me fence, so Carly said I could train here once a week." With a single snap of his wrist, he catches the sword in mid air, and lunges at the dummy again with a clean mark and adds, "Gettin' pretty good too."

She scoffs, arms folded, clearly not impressed. "Please, fencing's just a poor man's version of actual sword fighting, what with those wobbly antennas and all."

"It's called a foil," he corrects, with a horizontal slice in the air for emphasis.

"Who cares? The point is, fencing is for losers."

"Losers?" he repeats cynically, bending his stride a bit. "Well then, perhaps you'd care to back up that big mouth of yours?"

Sam is never one to be intimidated by trash talk, especially from Fredward Benson. With a small pop of her shoulders, she agrees and makes a b-line to the other side of the room where the extra fencing gear is. He cynically watches her go. Many people don't know Sam. Hell, most people are down right frightened of her. Who wouldn't be about a girl who's been incarcerated three times, spends more time in detention than in class, and who's love of violence borderlines on the sociopathic? But he knows her, outside of Carly he knows her the best. He knows she's too proud to pass up an opportunity to take him down a few pegs, even if she has to play by his rules, and doesn't know a lick about sword play.

"Sure you wanna do this, Sam? I mean, I really don't wanna end up hurting you."

"Cut the trash talk, Benson. You suck at it." She slides on the white kevlar jacket front first and places the metal threaded mask on her head, still open. Snatching the second sabre leaning against the wall, she flicks it in the air, folds the mask over her face, and catches it neatly by the handle before it falls to the floor.

He can't see it, but he knows she's grinning under her bulky white mask. He's hardly impressed, though, and pulls his mask down too and says, "First one to three points."

They both take their places in the middle of the loft, cleared of all furniture. Freddie gives a proper salute, whipping the sabre behind him with the accompanying sound and holds the weapon straight in the air, feet separated, knees bent, free hand in the air, ready to go.

She hardly gives him the same respect, heck, she barely even knows the rules. After waiting extremely bored for him to finish his ritual, she takes her unrefined stance, weapon slightly tilted his way, signaling her readiness.

"In five, four, three, two... OW!" he screams, with Sam's blade connecting with his shoulder. Immediately, he retracts with a hand over the spot. "Hey, I wasn't ready yet!"

Her apathetic shrug is distinguishable even under the fifteen pounds of extra weight draped over her body. "So? This isn't iCarly, or a professional sport or anything."

"Actually... it is! There are rules and everything!"

Another shrug. "Tell it to someone who cares. Looks like I get the first point." She smiles, this time clearly from enjoyment, and does a little happy dance.

"Fine," he sighs heatedly. "One point for you. Not like it's gonna matter anyway."

Seconds later and they resume their postures, sabres gently touching as Freddie advances on her position. He lunges for her chest, extending his back leg out for complete range. She parries easily with a quick swipe of her blade, knocking it to the side. In a blink of an eye, he's captures the upper hand, spinning on the ball of his font foot and landing a mark on her opposite shoulder, causing her to drop her sword.

"Ha! That's one point for me!" he exclaims, flipping up his mask as she humbly picks up her weapon off the floor. "You just fell victim to the classic 'fain' technique. Never focus on the first move. Always anticipate the attack that will come next."

A low grumble is all his condescension achieves, and she stomps to the middle of the room again, foil trembling in her tight grip. He's getting to her, and they both know it. Fencing isn't football, wrestling, or some other sport relying predominately on speed and brute force. Fencing requires balance, strategy and control, something he knows Sam does not have. Sure, she can beat him in an arm wrestle or anything involving throwing a ball around, but this isn't her world, it's not her game. Even though the mask is hiding her face, he can tell what she's feeling. Her once arrogant smirk is replaced with slanted eyes, a clenched jaw, reddened cheeks, and even though he can't see it, he knows it's there, and so does she.

He calmly walks to his spot in the middle of the room, and after doing an abridged version of his salute, they start the next round. This time, though, she refuses to make the first move. Patience isn't a virtue Sam normally possesses, and he's surprised she can unearth is here, in this place, at this moment in time. No matter - he can break her easily of that.

The sabre squirms in his hand, and the tip of the blade makes slow even circles right near her face. She growls, the tension festers and she swats the blade away in frustration and yells, "Stop that! That's really annoying!"

He smiles clandestinely, and tries lunging for her again, arm parallel to the floor aimed perfectly at her chest. This time, though, she retreats, shuffling backward until she's out of range and brings her blade down to his head. Fortunately, he recovers quick enough with a perpendicular parry making an 'X' with their swords. She releases and showers him with a relentless compound attack, to which he easily counters. He parries high, low, middle and high again, then sweeps his foil just inches from her covered face.

She stumbles backward and readjusts her mask. "You're just messing with me, aren't you?" she hisses angrily.

He leans nimbly on his sabre, and he doesn't need to nod because she can almost hear the goofy smile on his voice when he agrees, and the playful wink he gives her every time he can get a reaction out of her. Walking to her mark, she wields her sword again, ready to wipe that stupid grin - the one she can't see - off his face.

This time, he advances with a quick phrase of his own, poking his sword in her direction. Her technique isn't as polished as his, but she manages to deflect all his attacks pretty well, ducking under the last one as it glides over her head.

"You're shoes untied," she says crouched.

"What?" As soon as he looks down, she rises and bops the butt of her handle on top of his mask and slaps her blade over his shoulder. He grunts and falls down, nursing his head over the white mask.

Now it's her turn to smile.

"Hey, that's not fair!" he yells, uncovering his face.

"It's not my fault you fell for a nub trick like that."

He scowls - leave it to Sam Puckett to constantly bend the rules. Heaven forbid she should put forth any actual effort into something, rather than being lazy and resort to underhanded ploys and cheap tactics. But that's Sam, relying on her instincts and ability to improvise instead of diligent preparation and study. Just ask her mother, Carly or any of her teachers.

"You're testing my patience, Puckett." He jumps to his feet, the disdain on his face disappearing under the metal netted mask. "You just can't stand the fact I'm better at something than you are!"

"Hey, it's still 2-1. My lead," she conveniently reminds him.

"Yeah, thanks." After a quick salute, he takes his stance and angles his sword her way. Without a word, he begins his attack, swiping his blade in strong controlled motions. From the sheer speed she has to step away, only deflecting one or two blows in the process. This time, he has her cornered, reprising from his first lunge and hits a mark square under her chin. She flinches from his well aimed hit, watching the thin sword release from her clothes.

"That's 2-2," he mumbles, walking back with his point, a veil of haughty derision shrouding his concealed expression.

"Don't get cocky, Fredbag. It's still anyone's game."

His shifts his sword to his other hand and gives her an irreverent bow. "Not for long."

He doesn't scare her, not even a little. His apparent swagger is just a facade. He's still Fredward Benson, the geeky tech boy who pathetically swoons over Carly Shay day and night. He's the ultimate Momma's boy. The kind who gets weekly body inspections, who still makes a puzzle with his mother every night before bed, and by rule has to call her three times a day to assure her of his whereabouts. And just like that, any smidgen of caution disappears and she joins him in the middle of the loft, one last time.

She lunges for his side, but he blocks her blade just before it touches his body, and ripostes with a direct cutting attack, chopping his blade down. A quick parry and she lunges for his stomach, to which he bats it away easily. They reset the atmosphere and slide back to their marks.

"Okay, no more playing games," he whispers, and swings his sword like the blades of a helicopter, forcing her to drop to her knees. But she recovers in time just before he plunges the tip of his blade in her armor and she skips backward to gain some room. A minor sidestep dodges his next attack and she stabs her sword for his metal guarded face. Her blade just misses its target, and lightly skins the fabric of his mask as he bends backward, arching his back to avoid the end of the match.

He exhales a sigh of relief and knocks her blade away, sending it to the other side of the room with a metallic clink. For one brief second their eyes lock, like their faces aren't lined by heavy layers of nylon and steel, and in that moment her breath catches in her throat, the vulnerability freezing the blood in her veins. She finally looks down to her empty hands, and they both do a double take at the sword lying freely on the floor. They both sprint to the other side of the room, Sam kicking the foil away just as his fingers graze the handle. Loosing her footing, though, she trips and falls back-first into the wall, with Freddie ready to pin her to the brick.

She quickly dodges his thrust, and as soon as his blade sticks in the wall, she grabs him in a hug over his arms and pulls him in. Together, they back into the wall, masks pinned together.

He tries wriggling for room. "Let me go!"

"No!" she shouts, tightening her grip.

"This isn't a legal move, Sam!"

Their masks press together, so much that they can feel their hot breath against each others faces. "So? If I let go you'll make the final point!"

He tries rotating his wrist so the blade will hit her - any part of her! But their bodies are too much adjoined he can't shake off the vice-like grip she has on him.

"It's just like you to do this!"

They bump heads. "Do what?"

"Resort to cheating so you won't lose. Admit it, Sam. You can't beat me in fair play!"

"Can too!"

"Then let go!"

"No!"

"Fine! I guess we'll just stay like this forever!"

"FINE..."

Her 'fine' is different than his. As his is a resounding climax to the argument, her's starts out like that, then breaks into a sudden realization and stammers off into nothing. She swallows nervously, because she's suddenly aware of how close they are. And even though they're separated by layers of nylon, cotton and kevlar, she can oddly hear his heart racing faster, and its even more of a surprise when her heart matches his.

The room reaches an unfamiliar silence. For the first time, the air is void of the sharp clash of metal, the sound of footsteps on wooden planks or the heated bickering of two stubborn teenagers. For the first time that day, she can't think of a sharp insult, a backhanded comment or a witty play on his name, and she doesn't remember how but her mask is suddenly open - he must have nudged it off without her knowing.

His mask is open too. He can see her clearly now, and he can't believe he's never noticed the light cerulean pigment in her eyes, her smooth peachy skin, or her shiny, thin, pink lips. She looks like someone tongue tied, unable to speak - he likes seeing her this way. It's as if he accidentally discovered a strange new side of her. And as their faces are separated by a thin slice of air, he can't for the life of him figure out what she's thinking or how they got to this position in the first place.

He tries to move, anywhere but forward, but he can't stop his lips from angling down her way, and for a split second he thinks he sees her tilt her head and move in too.

A fabricated cough.

"Uh... s-sorry." A high, jittery and terribly familiar voice breaks the silence between them. Sam's rattling heart grounds to a halt, and automatically both their eyes shoot open. "Am I... uh ... interrupting something?"

Brown and blond haired heads slowly turn to the origin of the voice, only to find the third member to their web show, Carly Shay, in the arch of the doorway with an arm full of smoothies. Her eyes are as wide as saucers, mouth hanging open, bottom lip quivering in a total look of shock.

They jerk away from each other like an electric jolt has snapped them back into reality as they both register her presence at the same delayed time. Sam releases Freddie and pushes the poor boy on the floor. Her hands cling to the brick wall like she's just been caught shoplifting, and he whips his head back at Carly with a brilliant shade of vermilion.

"Maybe, I should, just go and let you guys get back to... uh ... w-whatever you were going to do." With a feeble grasp on her three smoothies, she backs away and hurriedly darts down the stairs, kicking the door shut.

For a moment, Sam and Freddie don't move a muscle, but the stunned silence lifts when their eyes finally meet again.

"Dang it, Freddie! See what you did?" she hisses.

"What I did?" He picks himself off the ground and sheds his fencing gear, discarding it arbitrarily around the room. "You were the one who wouldn't let me go!"

"You provoked me!"

"Me? Of the two of us, which is the most likely to provoke the other person!"

"I didn't provoke you!"

"You did too provoke me!"

"Stop saying 'provoked!'"

"You said it first!"

"No, you did!"

"Forget it!" He throws his hands in the air, and with an annoyed sigh heads for the door. "We better get downstairs quick."

"What? Why?" she asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Don't you remember the last time Carly found out we... you know, kissed, and didn't tell her."

She didn't have to be reminded, even if the incident happened over three years ago, it's pretty ingrained in her mind, his too. Sam's drug addled candor knew no bounds and let it slip to Carly of their kiss. A kiss sworn to secrecy, never to be mentioned again. The whole thing ended up with three friends mildly flustered by the whole outing, not to mentioned being tied to a bunch of chairs with duct tape. But out of the whirlwind came a resolution, to tell each another the truth. No more secrets.

"Let's get this over with," Freddie sighs, turning the knob. "You tried to kiss me, and that's that."

The door doesn't even open an inch when Sam forces it shut again with one hand.

"Uh... I tried to kiss _you_?" she asks, last word inflected higher than the rest. "You tried to kiss _me_."

He shakes his head. "No way."

"Yes way!"

She's never been this confident before, fiery too. The past ten minutes are still a blur but she can still pick out a few lingering memories: Like the clang of steel sabres, his concealed smile, and more notably their faces slowing inching together. On second thought, she does remember how vibrant her heart pounded under her armor, and titling her head to match his lips. But stubbornness overwhelms any sense of logic and she darts him with a few cutting remarks, forcing a heated match of "did too!" and "did nots!" volleying back and forth. Around the fifteenth round she stars to notice it again. Every pelting 'did too!' draws them closer, inch by inch, so close she doesn't need to slap her hands on his cheeks to pull him in because her lips are suddenly slammed against his. She can't remember if she pulled him in or if he did, but it doesn't really matter because their bodies are flushed together again, and this time he isn't even trying to escape. In fact, the only struggle there is, is the fight for dominance in the kiss, and where to strategically place their hands without bumping into each other.

Once it's done, they part to another stilled silence, and she catches a peculiar look on his face, one she's not overly familiar with. His eyes are bright, but without the arrogant competitive edge to them. His face is reddened, his breathing is labored, but they aren't _exactly _the same from when they were dueling. Another confident smile curls his mouth, and suddenly she gets it, he's feeling this way because of her, and how much he cares. It's why he's currently pulling her in for another kiss, and why she lets him do it, because she knows she has the same exact expression on her face too.

To this day, they still argue over who won the duel. They eventually made it downstairs to straighten things out with Carly too, eventually.

* * *

**My second crack at an iCarly story. This one was more complicated than the first. For one, I had to do some preliminary research on fencing (a lot more intricate than I thought) and secondly, I rarely write action sequences, but this scenario was just too tantalizing to pass up. Partial inspirational credit goes to Cristipotter's 'Topeless Trouble.' I took a page out of her book and thought it would be funnier if Carly walked in on them rather than just have them share another secret kiss again.**

**This is dedicated to season four, and if the unconfirmed rumors spell true, could have a lot more Seddie in it, which is always good times. Don't forget to review.**


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